feminism, motherhood, writing

It’s thirty years from now. I’m hunkered down in the underground bunker, halfway through knitting another fallout protection onesie for the grandkids. Suddenly, one of them shuffles over with a question.

“Granny, what did you do during the #metoo wars of 2018?”

I smile, misty-eyed at the memory of all those hashtags, call-outs and hopes for change. Then finally I answer.

“Nothing, Borissina. What do you take me for? Some kind of sex-hating, agency-phobic, due-process-denying prude?”

“No, Granny.” Satisfied, she returns to playing with her sister Remoana. Told you Granny was a real feminist, I hear her whisper.

Obviously I could be wrong about how future generations will view #metoo. It may be that this particular wave of feminist activism never has to come crashing down. Perhaps this is our moment, the point at which everything changes forever. Perhaps the proponents of #metoo and #timesup will never find themselves consigned to the overflowing feminist dustbin marked “problematic”.

I doubt it, though. These things have a way of falling apart. It doesn’t matter how right you are, or how important your cause. Feminism always ends up eating itself.